


Five Times Sarah Winchester Talked To Her House (And One Time Someone Else Did)

by least_common_variant



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen, Historical References, Inspired by Down to Agincourt Series - seperis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 19:54:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10748688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/least_common_variant/pseuds/least_common_variant
Summary: She'd hoped to contact the spirit of her late husband. What she actually got was something else entirely.





	1. 1 - 1882

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Game of God](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4592838) by [seperis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis). 



> The actual Winchester Mystery House is really cool and not, as far as anyone can tell, actually an Elder God. Highly recommended tourism opportunity if you find yourself in San Jose. 
> 
> High-quality beta by treefrogie84, who poked me until I made my sentences settle down and get to the point already.

The first time, it ended abruptly. Sarah Winchester gasped, as though she'd been holding her breath, and jerked her hands off the table, out of contact with the other participants in the seance - her sister and other dear friends hoping to help contact her beloved William. An instant later, she blew her candle out, ending any chance of resuming the proceedings.

Mr. Coons, the medium guiding tonight's seekers, schooled his irritated expression into a semblance of concern. "Did you... make contact with your husband, Mrs. Winchester?"

She shook her head, and placed her hands back on the table to stop their shaking. A few breaths, grounding herself with the scent of the extinguished candle's smoke, and she was able to speak. "I don't think it was him. It was... too big. Too strange." Her friends murmured amazement, and Mr. Coons asked, "Did he... it? say anything?"

Sarah thought about it for a moment, analyzing her experience, absently stroking the table cover with one fingertip. "No, not in words. It gave me a feeling, or maybe... an urge? Yes. An urge."

Mr. Coons reached across the table, and took her hands in his - a liberty, really, but the touch seemed to help her regain her calm. "To do what, Mrs. Winchester?"

It took her a moment to find the words. "To... go. Go to a specific place, but I don't know where. Because they are coming."

Her sister Isabelle gently dislodged Mr. Coons' hand from Sarah's right, taking it herself. "They? Who? William and Annie? And I think we should get you home, dearest, you've had quite a start."

Sarah shook her head. "I don't know... I couldn't tell." She started to get up, with Isabelle's help. "Mr. Coons, I... think we should try again. Next month?"

Mr. Coons escorted Isabelle and Sarah to the door ahead of the other guests. "Of course, Mrs. Winchester. I'm at your service."

Isabelle and Sarah's driver helped them into their carriage, and, with a chirp to the horse, started off into the night.


	2. 2 - 1883

She had been back to see Mr. Coons repeatedly - just her and Isabelle or Isabelle's daughter Marian, after the first few visits. Almost every time, she was able to communicate with the spirit, and she and Mr. Coons had been able to interpret some of what she felt when she was in contact with it.

There was blackness, always blackness. 

This was the wrong place. Here was not safe from them. They would come. Everything would be destroyed.

In the right place, building would keep her safe from them.

There was a need to go there, and keep building, and they would get lost in the building.

There was no hint of who "they" were - but Mr. Coons theorized that the only "they" who could mean her harm in the spirit world were those who sought revenge against her family, those who had been killed by bullets fired from guns with her name on them, made by her husband's company - now her company. And there were so many - the Winchester Repeating Rifle was "the gun that won the West", and when you win with a gun, you find yourself victor over a river of blood.

She and Mr. Coons were still not sure who the spirit she was communicating with was, but she felt no threat from it, even if the sense of blackness was worrying - and it was offering her safety from the angry dead. How could she refuse that? All they had to do was find "the right place" - and the book that could help her do that had finally arrived.

When they sat down at the seance table today, she and Isabelle and Marian and Mr. Coons, she did not hold hands with Isabelle and Marian; they placed theirs on her shoulders, because she would need her hands to use the atlas.

She felt herself slipping into the spirit trance, as easily as ever, and It was there.

She began as she always did - "May I know who you are?" - and received the same reply as ever, in impressions and feelings rather than words.

_blackDarkblackGOblackBLACKwrongplacedarkNotHeremustgoMUSTgoGO_

"I know I must go... Can you tell me where to go?"

_blackDarkGOwrongMUSTplaceGOdangerhereSafeThereGOtheywillcomeGO_

"Can you show me where to go in this book?" She fixed the idea of an atlas, the concept of what it was, in her mind. The response felt... excited?

_MUSTGOwrongplacehereRIGHTplaceTHERE_

Eyes still closed, she began turning pages in the atlas, one at a time. It didn't take long before she reached a page that the spirit responded to.

_RIGHTPLACErightPlaceTHEREthereTHERE_

Her fingertip glided over that page, guided by the urgings of the spirit, until the response changed.

_thereTHEREthereRIGHTPLACEgothereBUILDALWAYSBUILDKEEPBUILDING_

The feeling was so intense that it broke her out of the trance, and she opened her eyes to find that her fingertip was on the town of San Jose, California. "It appears I'm in for a substantial relocation..."

Isabelle squeezed her shoulder gently, reassuring. "We'll come with you, of course, dearest. I wouldn't want you to have to face this alone..."


	3. 3 - 1884

A substantial relocation took time - there was so much for a household of her status to move! Before she could even begin, Sarah had to locate the exact spot that was "right" - her fingertip had turned out to be covering a surprisingly large area of California on the map, so it took several more sessions with more detailed maps to obtain enough precision to actually identify the right parcel of land to purchase.

Then, purchasing the land had been troublesome. Mr. Hamm had been recalcitrant - and he wasn't a believer in the spirit world, so the explanation of the danger she was in had only convinced him she was "eccentric" (since she was wealthy, rather than the "mad" she might have been if she'd been of more modest means) and made him more difficult to deal with. But she was eventually able to make an offer that he couldn't bring himself to turn down, even if it made her attorney go pale.

The parcel of land was extensive - she'd be able to farm it, sell good food, maybe appease the spirits by bringing life and wellness to people instead of death - and the existing house was modest enough that there was plenty of room to build.

Before bed her first night in the house, she slipped on a ceremonial robe and went to the sitting room that adjoined her bedroom. Mr. Coons wasn't here, of course, but she honestly hadn't needed his help to contact the Spirit in a long time. Lighting a blue taper candle, she spoke the ritual words she had learned from her studies, and slipped into the trance that had become so familiar to her over the past two years.

It was there, as always, and she began with the same question as every other time she had done this: "May I know who you are?"

The answer began with the usual feeling of darkness or blackness, but then just became a low drone of _buildingBUILDINGbuildingBuildingBuildingBUILDsafeSafeSAFE_

Safe. She'd done it. This was the right spot, and she could begin building immediately - what a relief! She only had one more question that night: "What should I build?"

The drone continued - _buildingBUILDINGbuildBuildingBuildingBUILDsafeSafeSAFE_ \- no matter how many times she asked. As she extinguished the candle, she considered the question and lack of answer, and then said to the empty room, "I suppose it doesn't matter what I build, as long as I build..."

The next day she drew a sketch of an addition she felt would go nicely with the farmhouse, and was driven into town to hire a foreman. The first three she met with took one look at the sketch and sent her on her way. The fourth politely discussed modifications to her drawing that would make it drain rainwater properly off the roof. He also agreed that 'I don't care how long it takes, as long as it starts immediately, and I don't care how much it costs, as long as the workmanship and materials are of the highest quality' were conditions he could work under even if the plans he was supposed to work from were not plans so much as pipe dreams. He was hired.

The first room that was completed was on the upper floor. Sarah declared it off-limits to any of the servants and builders under any circumstances and unpacked her library of Spiritualist texts and boxes of ritual supplies. She found a delicate paintbrush and a small bottle of gilt paint and applied sigils to enhance her contact with the Spirit to a tabletop.

They didn't help, really. She tried almost every night, and very occasionally got advice about what to build, but it was rare for her to get any more than the feeling that told her she would be safe as long as the building continued. 

So the building continued.


	4. 4 - 1906

The building had continued for twenty-two years. Every moment of every day for twenty-two years, there had been at least one workman on the premises building the rooms, halls, stairs, doors and windows that Sarah decided the house needed, no matter how convoluted or "eccentric" - once again her money bought her that label instead of a less flattering one - her ideas seemed to those charged with realizing them. They painted and repainted and put up the precious imported wall coverings. They installed the beautiful stained glass windows and the massive doors that had completed the front entrance two days previously. At last, Sarah was satisfied with the front of the house.

The Spirit had seemed agitated when she asked it what she should build next - some sort of upset about the door, possibly. Since its communication hadn't progressed beyond vague feelings and impressions even after all this time, it wasn't always easy to interpret what it was trying to tell her. But there was a room being painted that would take several more days to finish, so she had a little time to decide.

(While she would never admit it to anyone else, she privately acknowledged that relying on the Spirit's advice had led to some odd design choices. It liked looping passages and series of rooms that went in circles. It occasionally seemed to ask for a room that didn't quite connect properly to the ones next to it. And more than one of her Tiffany windows had been walled up when the feeling she got seemed to work out to "seal the opening" or "close" or "cover". She hadn't been happy - they were expensive, and they were beautiful - but that was apparently what was necessary to keep her safe. New workmen and servants occasionally complained of getting lost, so she'd done her best to sketch out a map. They also occasionally complained of hallways that didn't go to the right place, of doors that opened onto nothing or the back side of another wall, of a room that would vanish and reappear - obviously having some fun with an old lady they thought was superstitious. None of that had ever happened to *her*, for heaven's sake.)

She extinguished the lights and settled down into the bed in her favorite bedroom - the one with the daisy windows, just above those glorious new doors. Sleep took her almost immediately.

She was awakened by the bed shaking violently, and a horrible sound - wood and stone and glass falling to the ground, landing violently. It seemed to go on forever, and the crashing sounds kept going even after the room stilled. An earthquake, she realized... and her house was falling down around her. She had to get outside... 

She took a moment to pull on her bed jacket and slippers, and then went for the door. It wouldn't budge. None of the other doors led outside - she couldn't escape. She rang the bell for the servants, but got no response. She pounded on the door, calling for help - but no one was there. Why did she think anyone could hear? Why did she even think anyone was still alive? She slumped against the door, shaken by the first but not the last sobs of the morning.

It was hours before her butler managed to find her, pry the door open, and get her to safety. It was hours more after that before she had the privacy to talk to the Spirit and ask what had happened.

The Spirit didn't even wait for her to ask a question. 

_theycameTheyCAMEtheyCameINJUREDtheycameKeptThemOutkeptoutTheyCameInjuredKEPTout_

For once she understood the Spirit's meaning clearly. "I'm so glad, Spirit. I'm so grateful. You've helped me so much. I was scared, but I'm not hurt. But the house is badly damaged - the tower fell - will fixing it help your injuries? What do I need to do?"

_sealRepairsealTheopeningFixSEALTHEOPENINGkeepbuildingREPAIRsealKEEPBUILDINGsealSEAL_

The following morning she instructed her foreman to have the front of the house boarded off, which he did (she regretted that the front doorway, so new that no one but her had ever walked through it, had to be closed off, but the Spirit's guidance had been unusually clear), and commence working on rebuilding the damaged parts of the rest of the house - which he unexpectedly refused, insisting on an engineer's inspection for the safety of the workers. To keep the work going, she settled for having a ground-floor hallway in an undamaged part of the house painted and repainted, until the engineer's report delivered dire news: the house was unstable, too tall for the foundations, and another quake would likely bring the whole thing down instead of just the tower. Not only could the tower not be rebuilt, nearly everything above the third floor would have to be demolished.

Well, she thought, that will keep them building for quite a while - and there was still plenty of room to add on to the back of the house.


	5. 5 - 1922

Marian was standing over Sarah's bed, crying. It took Sarah a moment to realize that this was because she was dead.

With that realization and her acceptance of it - what they said was true, the pain was gone, why would she want to go back to the constant torture of her aching joints? - everything changed around her. She was... somewhere. She was somewhere *in* the blackness she had come to associate with the Spirit. 

This was not, she thought, the afterlife she had been led to believe in. Especially once she felt herself start to fade away, to become part of the blackness, and the drone of _buildBUILDsealBUILDSealTheOpeningbuild_ began to resonate through her being, with a side note of _PARTofMePartOfMepartofme_ that she had never felt before.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and heard a Voice. "This is not where you belong, Sarah Winchester." There was a flash, and she found herself Elsewhere, in the company of a Being, looking at... a Thing. A Thing that constantly shifted, unable to hold a shape from one moment to the next. Examining it more closely, she recognized rooms of her house, disappearing from one limb of the Thing and reappearing in another. She spotted some of the Tiffany windows that she hadn't seen in years fluxing up to the surface and fading away again. She saw - her front door? wrapped in ribbons of the Thing's form as though it were chained shut. And more of the Thing's form struggling to hold closed a gaping wound in reality through which Nothing oozed, weaving bits of itself from one side to the other, dissolving and reforming in an attempt to fill in and cover over the hole.

The Being spoke. "I am the Angel Castiel. I have come to help you find your path. My father's fields are vast, and a place has been prepared for you since the moment of your birth. Your work here is done; follow me there there so you can rest."

The Angel Castiel held out a hand, inviting. But... "Wait," Sarah said. "What is that?"

Castiel turned back, answering bluntly. "It is... a grandchild of Ether, born to the purpose of sealing an opening in Creation. You helped it find the opening."

Sarah realized, "The Spirit. The one I thought was keeping me safe from the dead..."

Castiel watched the shifting Thing for a moment before replying. "The descendants of Ether are as far above the spirits of the dead as a human is above an amoeba. It is, effectively, a god. And the beings that would come through that opening are far more dangerous than any spirit; they would unmake reality itself." He paused for a moment, and added, "It is well that your rituals of mediumship were an inefficient form of communication. I do not believe you would have retained your sanity if you had contacted it directly."

Build. Seal. Keep safe. From this perspective, she finally understood: she had not been receiving instructions from the Spirit, but hearing the statement of its purpose, seeing a glimpse of its essence. "So I… didn't need to close my windows up in the walls. I didn't need to spend my life building a house my staff got lost in..."

Castiel again paused before answering. "Not at first. But once you started… it seems to have bonded with the structure. Your house hasn't been a house for quite some time, and your continued work on expanding it helped with its task. You seem to have inadvertently helped save all of Creation." He regarded her for a moment then asked, "Are you ready?"

Sarah watched the Thing - the god? Her house? Both? - shift for another moment, then nodded and took Castiel's hand. Before she left, though, she took just a moment to reach out and find that feeling of _buildSealSAFE_ one last time, and sent to it the idea of Goodbye.


	6. +1 - 2009

To most of the people Nate had met at work, the Winchester House was just a job. One to do, get paid for, and get out of before it got too creepy - all the workers had heard stories of people going missing, the house layout changing as soon as you turned your back, people losing time while they were working, fish in the basement. But those were just to scare the rubes, right? Besides, Nate, as a Christian and a craftsman, was incapable of doing less than his best work on any job; he owed it to his employers, to the homeowners, and really, in this case, he owed it to this beauty of a house. It was a privilege to work here, restoring the beautiful woodwork, the elaborate details in the trim pieces, the vibrant colors on the walls. And some of the stuff they were finding... these unbelievable stained-glass windows and gorgeous interior doors, sealed up in the walls for no good reason… Nate loved this house, he loved this job, and he almost hated to go home in the evening. It felt like he'd finally found where he belonged in this world.

But it was Halloween, so the workers had to clear out for the special evening tours - he didn't entirely approve of the tourists' interest in ghosts, even if it was mostly stories, but it was always good to have people come in and appreciate the house. On his way down the stairs and out the doors, he ran his fingers over the carvings in the handrail (even though he had to stoop to do so), the newel post, the door frame. He gave the porch staircase railing a gentle pat, and couldn't keep the admiration and wonder out of his voice as he said, "It's so good to see you coming back to life...love you, babe." 

The feeling he got a moment later, that the house loved him back, was surely a figment of his imagination.


End file.
